


The title of my biography

by scarfy36



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 2012 Summer Olympics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Athletes, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarfy36/pseuds/scarfy36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You slept with the dark-haired one?”<br/>“Yeah, but I think I’ve fallen even harder for the blonde.”<br/>“You’re an idiot. But you do have good taste in men.”<br/>“That should be the title of my biography.” </p><p> </p><p>In which Les Amis are competing in the 2012 London Olympics, the French swim team are ridiculously attractive and all the boxers have slept with Montparnasse (but they're not allowed to talk about that anymore).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The title of my biography

They first meet in a bar called Corinthe a few blocks down from the Olympic Village. It’s the night before the Opening Ceremony and Enjolras doesn’t quite know how Courfeyrac convinced the rest of them to go out drinking. But he’s here and all of his teammates have left him alone at their table and suddenly he’s not alone anymore because now there’s a dark-haired man sitting beside him.

“That seat’s taken,” Enjolras says, trying to keep his frustration out of his voice. He barely looks up from the bottle cap he’s twirling in his fingers.

“Doesn’t look very taken to me,” the man shrugs and Enjolras guesses by the accent that he’s a local. “Grantaire, by the way.” He offers a hand to shake and Enjolras finally looks up long enough to take a good look at the man. Enjolras finds him fairly unremarkable, wearing skinny jeans and a tee shirt with the name of a band he’s never heard of. His hair is dark and unruly, and there’s stubble on his jaw. A tattoo is visible on the underside of his offered arm, the only thing about him that even mildly peaks Enjolras’ interest.

“Enjolras.” Grantaire’s grip is firm and lingers just a little longer than strictly necessary. “My teammates will be mad if you’re in their seat when they get back.”

“You’ve been sitting alone for the past half hour,” Grantaire points out, and Enjolras feels like he should point out that it’s creepy to watch people. Before he gets the chance, the other man continues speaking. “Also, I’m guessing by ‘teammates’ that you’re here for the games?”

“Yes, swimming. For France.”

“Of course,” Grantaire smirks, trying desperately not to remember all the pictures of Enjolras in speedos he’s seen.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It makes sense, you do seem to have the lithe swimmers body. Plus it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to notice the chlorine in your hair. But the blue jeans and red-and-white shirt are a nice touch of patriotism.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Enjolras asks, scandalised.

“Nothing at all, you have lovely hair – amazing, really, it’s like an angel’s – but I’m sure there are treatments that can stop it from drying out like that.”

Enjolras is pretty sure he’s just been both complimented and insulted at the same time. “I’ve been a bit busy preparing for the Olympics to worry about it, but I’ll try to look after my dry ends better now that you’ve noticed,” he says sarcastically. “If you’re trying to chat me up, you’re doing a terrible job and I’m not interested.”

Hurt flickers across his eyes before he sticks a grin on his face. “That’s a bit presumptuous, maybe I just came over here to make a friend and stop you from sitting awkwardly by yourself.”

“Insulting people generally doesn’t make them your friends,” Enjolras points out.

“What are you talking about, all of my friendships consist of insults,” he looks around the bar before grinning at a huge man with a shaved mohawk sitting a few tables away. “Oi Bahorel, your hair looks fucking stupid, man. It’s worse than Montparnasse’s, and he’s a greasy git.”

“You can hardly talk, hobbit,” the man grins back, laughing.

“See? I insulted his hair and he’s my best mate,” Grantaire turns his eyes back to Enjolras, a challenging glint to his gaze.

Enjolras gives a sigh and glances at his watch. “I should find my teammates and get back to the Village. It was, uh, nice meeting you.”

Grantaire doesn’t hide his disappointment as he replies “you too” and goes to join Bahorel at his table, looking crestfallen.

Enjolras finally spots Courfeyrac, who is attached at the mouth to a pretty local, and waits until they come up for air before he tries to speak to his teammate. When the girl excuses herself, Enjolras discovers that Combeferre had left an hour ago (traitor), and Marius has also disappeared. Courfeyrac said he had last seen him making heart eyes at a blonde girl.

As Enjolras tries (and fails) to convince Courfeyrac to come back to the Village with him, he can’t help but watch Grantaire out of the corner of his eye. He watches him down several shots with Bahorel, but for some he reason he has to look away when he pulls the girl next to him (who looks a lot like the one Courfeyrac was just lip locked with) onto his lap. Enjolras goes home alone and tries his best to stop thinking about the completely unremarkable man.

OoO

There’s something buzzing very loudly next to Grantaire’s ear when he wakes up the next morning. He cracks open his eyes and immediately regrets the decision when he sees sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the shutters. When he rolls over he hits a wall, he realises he is in neither his own bed at home nor the one he was assigned in the Olympic Village. He can hear quiet voices coming from another room and then the buzzing – which he realises is his phone vibrating – is back.  

The caller ID says it’s Bahorel and he answers meekly, putting it on speaker so he can find and pull on his underwear. “Hello?”

“ _I don’t care where you are or how hung over you so don’t try to play the sympathy card_.”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

“ _Montparnasse sprayed me with a water pistol to wake me up. Be grateful all you get is a phone call_.”

“I’m so sad I wasn’t there to see it,” Grantaire laughs, wincing as the sound leaves his dry throat.

“ _Opening ceremony is in a few hours and you need to be here_.”

“What happened to the days when we used to talk to each other, Bahorel? We never talk anymore, it’s always boxing this, Olympics that. We need to have more chats.” There’s a man standing in the doorway now, and he can see a girl behind him. Neither of them are wearing more than their underwear. Grantaire tries to think back through the blurry memories to remember their names.

“ _We can do whatever you want as soon as we both win gold_.”

“No pressure at all there.” The girl – Floreal, he remembers her name – and the man whose name he doesn’t remember climb back onto the bed with him and he remembers exactly what happened the night before. “Bahorel, I’ll have to call you back. I think I had a threesome last night.”

Floreal laughs and the man grins, but Bahorel isn’t as impressed. “ _Congratulations, but you still need to be here for the Ceremony._ ”

“I’ll be there, I promise,” Grantaire’s attention isn’t on the phone call anymore and Bahorel can tell.

“ _You don’t have time for another round with whoever’s there_.”

“I’ll be there. I have to go.” He ends the call and tosses his phone back onto the nightstand as the other two people on the bed look at him expectantly. “He was right, I don’t have time for another round. The Opening Ceremony is kind of important.”

“Such a shame,” the girl sighs, the man echoing her disappointment.

“I’ve already put my number in both of your phones in case you want to do this again any time while I’m here,” the man says – with a French accent, he notes – as Grantaire tries to separate his clothes from the pile on the floor. “Either of you or both of you, I’m definitely not fussy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Grantaire grins, pulling on his pants and pocketing his phone.

“I should get going too,” the man says, standing up to stretch the toned muscles of his back. “It’s a good thing you’re a local, or I would definitely get lost on the Underground.”

“Who says we’re going to same way?” Grantaire asks.

“You’re going back to the Village aren’t you?”

“Wait, you’re competing in the Games? Please tell me you’re not a boxer, because that’s not fair if I have to fight you.”

“Relax, I’m a swimmer,” the man laughs and Grantaire is reminded of someone else telling him the same thing with the same accent the night before.

“I scored two Olympians last night,” Floreal says proudly, a bright grin on her face. The two men in question drop kisses onto her cheeks before saying their farewells and leaving her flat together.

When they’re on the train on the way back to the Village, Grantaire pulls out his phone to check the new addition to his phonebook and tries to figure out how the hell you’re supposed to pronounce ‘Courfeyrac’.

OoO

There were masses of people standing around in ordered groups and lines, and yet Bahorel still felt the need to drag Grantaire through the crowds in search of, well, _someone_. Grantaire has never been good at remembering details.

And yet he can still remember everything about the blonde man he had met last night. He can remember every word Enjolras said to him, every detail of what he looked like and what he was wearing were burned into his memory. He remembers the look of hurt in his eyes when he pulled Floreal onto his lap, and tries not to dwell on what that might mean.

“Who are we meeting again?” Grantaire asks as they weave through the crowds. “Aren’t we supposed to be over there with the rest of the English athletes?”

“We’re meeting Eponine, we used to box together before I moved back here,” Bahorel calmly explains, using his height advantage to search the faces around them. “I really want to see her before the games start.”

“And you met her when you were in France?” Bahorel nods. “Which means she’s on the French team and she’ll be standing with other French athletes?”

“Most likely, yes,” Bahorel stops and turns to face his friend. “Why do you look terrified? You’ll love ‘Ponine.”

“I’m sure I will, it’s just that I…” his voice trails off and Bahorel gives him a _look_ that makes him sigh and repeat what he said. “I slept with one member of the French swimming squad last night and I think I personally offended Enjolras, who was one of his teammates. I flirted with Enjolras and he rejected me.”

“R, the games haven’t even started yet,” Bahorel laughs, clapping Grantaire on the shoulder and resuming his way through the crowd.

Grantaire sulks and follows his taller friend, staring at the ground in hopes of avoiding people he knows. The universe hates him, Grantaire decides, because when he looks up he sees Bahorel smothering a girl (presumably Eponine) in a bear hug and finds both Enjolras and Courfeyrac (as well as two other men that Grantaire doesn’t recognise) standing beside them.

“Eponine, this is Grantaire,” Bahorel introduces and Grantaire doesn’t miss the way the two men next to them look up at his name. “R, meet ‘Ponine.”

“I’m glad to finally meet the girl who used to beat him up,” Grantaire grins. “God knows I’ve tried, but there’s a reason he’s competing here.”

“Wow, what a small world,” Courfeyrac says with a wicked smile. “It’s good to see you again, Grantaire.”

Eponine and Enjolras look confused, and their conversation seems to have attracted the attention of a few of the other men around them. Bahorel raises an eyebrow at his teammate who shrugs guiltily in response. Eponine is the one who breaks the awkward silence, “You two know each other?”

“Yeah, we were,” Grantaire pauses, searching for the right word, “acquainted last night.” Courfeyrac snorts with amusement but doesn’t say anything and Grantaire tries to gauge what Enjolras is thinking.

An announcement begins over the loudspeaker and Bahorel takes it as a cue to get out of the strange situation they found themselves in. “We should get back to our teammates, but Eponine, text me tomorrow and we can catch up properly.”

“Will do,” she promises, giving him a final hug.

Bahorel leads the way back and Grantaire follows behind quietly until Bahorel breaks their silence. “You slept with the dark-haired one?”

“Yeah, but I think I’ve fallen even harder for Enjolras.”

“You’re an idiot. But you do have good taste in men.”

“That should be the title of my biography.”

OoO

Grantaire’s first match isn’t scheduled until the second day of competition, but Bahorel has a fight on the first night, which is why Eponine finds them in the gym, practising together with Montparnasse, their coach.

Bahorel has his back to the door, making Montparnasse the first one to see Eponine when she enters. He freezes when they lock eyes, allowing Bahorel to get a jab into his gut. Grantaire and Eponine laugh as Montparnasse wheezes, and Bahorel pulls off his gloves to greet his friend.

“Got a match soon?” she asks.

“Tonight,” he nods, taking the bottle of water Grantaire offers him.

“I’ll make sure to be there. It’s good to see you again, Montparnasse.”

“Does everyone know her but me?” Grantaire asks.

“Montparnasse was my first boxing coach,” Eponine explains. “He was a friend of my father’s back before he went completely broke.” She turns to Grantaire with her lips turned up into a smirk as she continues. “I spoke to Courfeyrac after we saw you last night, and he had the highest praises for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, we all know R’s great in bed, can we get back to training now?” Montparnasse says, frustrated, after finally regaining his composure.

“You know from experience?” Eponine teases.

“We’re not allowed to talk about that anymore,” Grantaire winks.

“Geez, ‘Parnasse, do you sleep with all of your athletes?”

“If we don’t count what we’re not allowed to talk about anymore,” he fixes a pointed glare at his athletes before softening to look at her, “you’re the only one ‘Ponine.”

Bahorel and Grantaire share a look, and the shorter man whispers, “I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that before.”

“If I wasn’t afraid he’d get the water gun back out, I’d say he likes her.”

“50 bucks say they get together before the end of the games.”

Bahorel shakes his head, “Montparnasse looks like he’d wet himself for the chance, but I don’t think Eponine would go for it. You’re on.” They shake hands, grinning.

“Now drag him back into the ring, we’re not letting stupid attractive French athletes get in the way of winning these Games,” Grantaire says, and Bahorel complies. He pulls his gloves back on and jabs his coach on the butt to get his attention.

When Montparnasse is refocused on Bahorel and they’re sparring on the other side of the room, Eponine and Grantaire are left alone together.

“I wasn’t kidding about what Courf said about you, he really did seem a bit smitten,” Eponine begins, and Grantaire can’t help but ask, “What did Enjolras look like when he was talking about me?”

“He was scowling more than usual, he’s been a bit off for the past few days now that I think of it.” Eponine frowns at him curiously. “What did you do?”

“I flirted with him and he rejected me. That was it.”

Eponine shakes her head, sighing. “Don’t try to understand his brain, but he does seem affected by you which is either a good thing or he’s plotting your murder.”

“Oh great,” Grantaire deadpans.

“I should get going but I’ll see you at Bahorel’s match later,” she bids him farewell, waving at their friend still sparring.

OoO

Grantaire is still not sure how it happened, but he’s waiting for Bahorel’s match to start with Eponine sitting on one side of him and the French swimming relay team on his other side. At least Bossuet & Musichetta are reporting on this event so he can distract himself by talking to them, sitting in the row in front of him.

Eponine and one of the swimmers – Marius he thinks his name was – give him a strange look when he rests his head on Bossuet’s shoulder and Musichetta starts playing with his hair, and he realises an introduction is probably necessary.

He lifts his head and addresses his new friends. “I promise I’m not this affectionate with strangers, this is Bossuet and Musichetta. Bossuet is a sports reporter and ‘Chetta’s his photographer. Their boyfriend, Joly, is also our medic so we’ve all gotten pretty close over the years of competition.”

Eponine and the others introduce themselves in return and when Marius strikes up a conversation with Bossuet, Grantaire can already sense that the two groups of friends are about to become closer and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. He just wishes he wasn’t stuck next to Marius.

“R, want to make a statement?” Bossuet asks, tapping a pen against his notebook. Many of the other journalists use tablets, but Bossuet knows not to push his luck surrounded by other people and sticky drinks. “Give me some perspective about the fight from an inside source.”

“Well, Bahorel’s going to punch him a few times, and he’ll probably get punched back. Hopefully he does the most punching and wins so I don’t lose my roommate.”

Bossuet sighs, shaking his head and Musichetta pats his shoulder comfortingly as she addresses Grantaire. “If you won’t say anything serious can we at least get a photo of you supporting your teammate?”

“Get one of me and Eponine, you can have an exclusive about how we shared ‘Parnasse,” Grantaire obliges. At Bossuet’s confused look, he continues, “He was Eponine’s coach before he moved to England. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Musichetta smirks knowingly before pulling her camera bag over her shoulder and standing up. “I want to be ringside for Bahorel’s match, but I’ll try to get some candids of you two.” She presses a quick kiss to Bossuet’s lips and leaves them as Marius decides it’s time for a food run. Courfeyrac and Eponine energetically join him, and Combeferre comes along to use the bathroom.

Bossuet is writing notes again, leaving just Grantaire and Enjolras left and one empty seat between them. Grantaire is trying desperately to think of something to say to break the silence between them. Well, he can think of several things to say, but “I’m sorry for sleeping with your teammate when I’m actually kind of in love with you” doesn’t really seem an appropriate ice breaker.

“I’m sorry for sleeping with your teammate when I’m actually kind of in love with you.” Shit.

Enjolras looks up, eyeing him warily as though Grantaire has lost his sanity – which, okay, he supposes that’s understandable. “It’s okay,” Enjolras says quietly, so that Grantaire has to strain to hear him over the crowd.

“I really didn’t mean to say that,” Grantaire looks surprised at the words coming out of his mouth. “I normally don’t say anything that honest when I’m sober. I’m making a terrible impression on you.” Bossuet lets out a snort of laughter and Grantaire flicks him on the back of his head.

“It’s fine, really,” Enjolras reassures him, shuffling into the empty seat between them. “I was rude the other night.”

“And that warrants me sleeping with Courfeyrac?” Grantaire narrows his eyes, looking sceptical.

“You were both – and I assume the girl was too – consenting, unbetrothed adults.”

“Very astute observation,” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Were you jealous, Enjolras?” His tone is still joking but there’s a nervous look in his eyes.

“What if I was?” Enjolras shifts on his seat slightly.

“Then you should have been nicer to me that night. Who knows how it could have ended?”

They hadn’t realised how close they had leaned in to each other until they heard the sounds of their friends returning and both of them sat up abruptly. If any of Enjolras’ teammates noticed anything odd, they didn’t mention it and Marius was kind enough to take Enjolras’ vacated seat.

“How long until Bahorel’s starting?” Eponine asks, squeezing past Grantaire to return to her seat.

“It should be soon,” Grantaire replies, trying to ignore the way Enjolras’ leg brushes against his own in the cramped space. “His opponent’s ranked fairly low so hopefully it should be a quick fight.” Eponine nods in reply and Grantaire wonders how one short conversation could change so much in his mind about Enjolras.

**Author's Note:**

> I know very little about the Olympics or the life of Olympic athletes so I apologise for the inevitable inaccuracies.
> 
> Also, I can't guarantee any sort of regularity as far as updates go with this, sorry!


End file.
